The Mayfair Affair

by Tracy Grant

  Malcolm met his spymaster's gaze. "David says Trenchard struck Mary."

  Carfax's gaze narrowed. As usual, he'd positioned himself with the light at his back. "I should have known David would tell you."

  "Is that why you neglected to tell me yourself?"

  Carfax leaned back, further into the shadows. "I saw no reason to distract you with something that has no bearing on Trenchard's murder."

  "Unless Trenchard's treatment of Mary is the motive for the murder."

  Carfax raised his brows. "My dear boy, are you accusing me of having had my son-in-law killed?'

  "It gives you a motive. Along with others."

  Carfax's brows snapped together. "If you mean Mary—"

  "My dear sir, I want to protect Mary as— No, I suppose I can't claim as much as you do, but you must know I think of her practically as a sister. Which is why it's all the more important I have all the pertinent facts so I can arrive at a solution as quickly and cleanly as possible."

  Rather to his surprise, Carfax gave a faint smile. "Do you know, if I had had Trenchard killed, I rather think I'd have told you about his abominable treatment of Mary. Confessing to throw you off the scent. I should never have let the bastard— But that's neither here nor there."

  "Trenchard had also changed his will recently and cut out a large part of Mary's portion."

  Carfax's brows snapped together. "By God—"

  "You didn't know?"

  "No." The anger that suffused the earl's face seemed genuine, but with Carfax one could never be sure.

  "Do you have any idea why?"

  "Good God, no. But I can hardly claim to have been privy to my late son-in-law's innermost thoughts."

  "Did you know Trenchard was a member of the Elsinore League?"

  Carfax went still. "You have been busy."

  "Did you?"

  Carfax adjusted the other earpiece of his spectacles. "Suspected."

  "Before he married Mary?"

  "My God, do you think I would use my own daughter to spy for me?"

  "Yes, if you thought the potential gains valuable enough."

  Carfax got to his feet. "You may be right. As it happens, I didn't know."

  Malcolm got to his feet as well and turned, his back against the cabinet with the sculpture the papers had come from. "You'd say that anyway."

  "Probably. I can only hope your skills at reading people are as good as I've credited, and you don't waste time on me." Carfax moved to the drinks trolley, his back to Malcolm. Malcolm stayed still, wary of a feint. "What told you Trenchard was an Elsinore League member?"

  "Papers." Malcolm reached behind him for the sculpture, one-handed. "He seems to have angered members of the League recently, though it's not clear over what."

  "Letting the personal interfere with his larger goals perhaps. Not a mistake I'd have thought Trenchard would make." Carfax splashed liquid into a glass. The pungent aroma of cognac filled the air.

  "Not a mistake you'd make?" Malcolm had the sculpture open.

  "A mistake I've tried to avoid. I think we're all vulnerable. Especially where our children are concerned. Though I thought if anything, Trenchard was less vulnerable than I am. Particularly when it came to James."

  "I understand he favored Jack."

  "Difficult to see why. Jack was the sort a man warns away from his daughters. Whereas James has given his father everything a man could want in a son and heir." Carfax splashed brandy into a second glass.

  "Everything you'd like in your heir?" Malcolm slid the papers out of his coat and behind his back. Carfax turned round, a glass held out, a split second after Malcolm got his hand behind his back. At least Malcolm thought it was a split second after.

  "Don't try to change the subject, Malcolm." Carfax advanced, the drink held out.

  Malcolm accepted the glass with his right hand while with his left he slid the papers into the compartment in the sculpture. "You're the one who mentioned sons and heirs."

  "You can't deny James is more conventional than David."

  "No one takes his duty more seriously than David." Malcolm reached for the lid, but the fingers of his left hand couldn't quite manipulate it.

  "No, that's true." Carfax returned to his chair and ook a sip of brandy. "And he wouldn't thank me for interfering on his behalf any more than James would."

  "Trenchard had also apparently quarreled with Jack's wife's father recently." Malcolm snapped the lid back in place.

  "Frederick Hampson? I'd have thought Trenchard was eager to be rid of the connection. He was always a bit of a snob."

  "Could Hampson have been an Elsinore League member?"

  Carfax clunked down his glass. "Who told you that?"

  "It's just an idea. We were wondering if they could have been quarreling about something more recent than Hampson's late daughter."

  "I never heard anything to suggest it. Hampson was a good man. Is a good man, though I haven't had dealings with him in years."

  "You knew him?"

  "Back in my military days." Carfax had served in the military until the deaths of his nephew and elder brother led to his unexpected ascension to the earldom. "Hampson commanded the garrison at Fort Arthur and had the misfortune to have his command in India at the time of the war between East Adilabad and West Basmat. Two small princely states that hadn't yet come under British control. We'd have been better off staying out of it, but of course the East India Company wanted to use it to gain a tactical advantage, and East Adilabad was willing to sign a treaty and cede trading rights in exchange for support. Hampson protested, but he sent British troops in when the order came down from the Governor General. Lord Minto. Hampson's the sort of man who blamed himself when it went sour, for all he'd warned everyone that it would."

  "Could he and Trenchard have quarreled about that?"

  "It's possible. Trenchard was there as an envoy at that time and he was involved in negotiations before the hostilities broke out, but I never heard that he and Hampson disagreed."

  "Can you think of anything else they might have quarreled about?"

  Carfax took a meditative sip of cognac. "Unless he changed dramatically when he went to India—and by all reports, he didn't—Jack Tarrington wouldn't have been the best of husbands. It's the sort of thing one doesn't get over, one's daughter being made unhappy. Sometimes the explanation really is merely personal, Malcolm."

  "But something made matters between Trenchard and Hampson flare up now."

  "Yes." Carfax turned his glass in his hand. "Interesting."

  "Was there anything suspect about the accident that killed Jane and Jack?"

  Carfax's brows rose. "My word, Malcolm. You really do jump at shadows."

  "Half of an investigation is asking questions outside the box. Most of them will be flights of fancy. But a few will be the key to the puzzle."

  "Especially when you're trying to exonerate a friend."

  "You of all people should know better than to take things at face value, sir."

  Carfax leaned back in his chair, his glass cradled in one hand. "I never heard any talk. That doesn't mean there wasn't anything untoward. But Hampson and Trenchard both lost children. Hampson could hardly blame Trenchard."

  "Suppose an enemy of Trenchard's was behind the accident. Someone wanting to send a message, or who blamed Trenchard for the loss of his or her own child. Or spouse, or lover. I imagine Trenchard has made more than his share of enemies."

  Carfax drummed his fingers on the well-worn arm of his chair. "It's an interesting theory. But I do remember Mary telling me Hampson and his wife had been to dine at Trenchard House when they returned to London a couple of years ago. My daughter can be self-absorbed, but she's an astute woman. I think she'd have noticed if Hampson had been harboring a deep-seated resentment."

  "Hampson would have to have discovered something recently."

  "That could give him a motive for murdering Trenchard."

  "Quite. Of course if someone harbored enough re
sentment of Trenchard to have killed his son and daughter-in-law, that person would also be a suspect."

  "My compliments, Malcolm. Purely through speculation, you've managed to give yourself two suspects other than Miss Dudley."

  "I'm not such a fool as to claim they are viable suspects, sir. Not yet. But I do intend to call on Colonel Hampson."

  "By all means."

  Malcolm couldn't help but wonder if part of Carfax's cordiality came from the potential new suspects also being a distraction from his own family.

  As Malcolm and Carfax moved down the passage, Raoul held out his arm to Suzanne. Suzanne hesitated a moment, then curled her fingers round his arm. It was a simple social formality, after all. Malcolm should understand that.

  Strains of a piece that must be Schubert's sounded as they neared the music room. They slipped into empty gilt-and-damask seats at the back of the white and gold room in time to hear the end of the concert. Franz Schubert had become a good friend during their days at the Congress of Vienna. He had only been seventeen, but already at the start of a promising musical career. He sent his new music to Suzanne, but playing pieces herself on the pianoforte was different from hearing the full piano trios and string quartets. The soaring lyricism and gut-clenching emotion beneath the intricate melodies never failed to stun her.

  "Suzanne. Mr. O'Roarke." Cordelia swept to their side in a stir of gold tulle as the music came to an end. "I was wondering where you'd got to."

  "In truth, we had something to discuss," Suzanne said.

  Cordelia dropped into an empty chair beside them. "I suspected so, but didn't want to ask." She settled the folds of her skirt. "It sounds horrid, but at least to the two of you I can confess that it's rather nice to have something to investigate again. Balls and musicales are so much more interesting when one is asking all sorts of shocking questions about the people round one."

  "I know precisely what you mean, Lady Cordelia," Raoul said with a smile.

  A few moments later he was claimed by Lord John Russell with a question about parliamentary reform. "It's nice to have him about," Cordelia said. "I've always liked him."

  Cordelia's face showed nothing but simple appreciation. It was a bit surprising, Suzanne thought, that her discerning friend was apparently blind to undercurrents concerning Raoul. Unless Cordelia did realize it and her deliberate pose of normality was designed to reassure Suzanne. Cordy was a good enough actress to pull it off. She'd have made a formidable agent with the right training.

  "I've heard a great deal of gossip," Cordelia continued, as they got to their feet and joined the throng moving back into the first-floor hall. "But nothing of substance. I spent the most time trying to persuade Gui not to drink too much. I haven't seen him like this since Paris."

  Gui Laclos, Bertrand's cousin and Gabrielle's sister, was also a friend from their Continental days. Like Schubert, he'd played an important role in one of their investigations. But he was something more to Cordelia. A good reminder that Suzanne wasn't the only one with an ex-lover to complicate her life. "Has something happened?" she asked, as they slipped past a trio of giggling debutantes.

  "Not that I know of." Cordelia's brows drew together. "He'd been seeming more comfortable with the family than I'd ever known. Then tonight I found him brooding in a corner with a glass of brandy. Quite like old times. I need to try to find out what's going on. Fortunately, Harry seems to have come to terms with Gui. One really can be friends with a former lover."

  Suzanne wondered if she would call Raoul a friend. Beneath the layers of deception, practiced together and practiced on each other, perhaps that's what he was.

  "It's not as though everyone isn't talking about Trenchard," Cordelia said, as they stepped through the open double doors back into the drawing room. "The gossip's as thick as face cream. Cheap face cream. I tried to drop leading comments, but mostly people were trying to get information from me." She looked over her shoulder at Suzanne as they threaded their way along the side of the room. "They seemed to be sure I had pertinent information, because we're friends. The word must be out that you and Malcolm are investigating."

  "Or that our children's governess is the prime suspect." Suzanne stopped, leaning against a convenient pilaster.

  "Yes, I'm afraid I had plenty of questions about Laura." Cordelia pulled her trailing skirts away from the unsteady footsteps of a red-faced gentleman moving past. "But the most I could draw out about Trenchard were some unkind comments about Mary Trenchard looking as though she'd gained half a stone."

  "Women can be abominably cruel to other women. I distinctly remember hearing Mrs. Montrose whispering—in the sort of whisper designed for me to overhear it—that it looked as though I was appreciating the embassy pastry chef." At the time, Suzanne had been almost three months pregnant with Jessica, though she and Malcolm hadn't told anyone but their closest friends. Blanca had already had to let some of her gowns out and it wasn't for the high-waisted styles—

  Suzanne's gloved fingers dug into the paneling behind her. She stared at the flickering candles in the wall sconces reflected in the pier glass, while her mind whirled and jumped. "Dear God. I've been a fool."

  "What?"

  "Cordy, when was the last time you put on enough weight to draw some arch comments?"

  "Well, there are times of the month when I feel distinctly waterlogged, but enough to draw comment? I suppose when I was expecting Drusilla, and we hadn't—" She stared at Suzanne. "Good God. Do you think—"

  "She'd quarreled with her husband. He was angry enough that he was trying to write her out of his will."

  Cordelia cast a quick glance about the crowd. "A baby he knew couldn't be his would certainly explain it. But— Mary Mallinson, of all people. It's the sort of predicament women like me are supposed to find themselves in. Not women like her."

  "It's the sort of predicament any woman can find herself in." Suzanne saw the duchess's contained face the previous day and thought of what David's reaction would be. And Carfax's. And those were Mary's family. "If—"

  She broke off as a footman approached them with a tray of champagne glasses. Suzanne started to wave him off, but he stopped beside them. "Forgive me, Mrs. Rannoch, but someone gave me this note for you."

  Suzanne stared at the cream-colored paper he handed her. Her name was written on it in a hand she didn't recognize. Dread coiled beneath her corset laces. "Who?"

  "I'm afraid I don't know, madam. I was moving through the crowd and suddenly the card was on my tray. I wasn't sure, but I thought I should give it to you."

  "Quite right." Suzanne smiled at him.

  Relief shot over the young man's face as he moved off.

  Suzanne slit open the note and angled it towards her so no one else could see the writing. Cordelia would understand. Fortunately, the press in the drawing room was so thick it amounted to a veil of invisibility.

  Mrs. Rannoch,

  I need what Trenchard needed. You will understand the risks. The large stand of willows by the Serpentine, five a.m. the day after tomorrow.

  Chapter 14

  Suzanne's fingers went numb. She clamped them round the note. A chill of terror washed over her that must be similar to what Mary Trenchard was going through.

  "Anything I can do?" Cordelia asked.

  Suzanne met her friend's gaze. They had shared childbirth, abduction by soldiers at gunpoint, fear for their husbands during Waterloo. But this was a line she dared not cross, even with Cordy. "Just something a bit tiresome."

  Cordelia inclined her head. She understood Suzanne had secrets. Sometimes Suzanne felt she understood too much, but Cordelia's discretion was convenient.

  "Do you need to—?" Cordelia asked.

  "Nothing immediately."

  Caroline Lamb joined them, eager to talk about Simon's new play. Suzanne managed to laugh and smile, keenly aware of the pressure of her reticule strap over her wrist and the note inside. So insubstantial, yet the weight had settled within her.

  "M
rs. Rannoch. May I steal you away?" It was Raoul. He gripped her elbow and steered her to a sofa set in an embrasure in the now nearly empty music room. "Sit down. It wouldn't do to faint."

  Suzanne met his gaze. "Was it that obvious?"

  "Only to someone who knows you as I do." Raoul dropped down beside her, back angled to shield them. "Breathe. Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as you're imagining. Was it the note the footman gave you?"

  She gave a rough laugh. "You don't miss much, do you?"

  "Just now, I have particular cause to be concerned."

  She unclasped her reticule and handed him the note. She saw the reaction run through him, a flash of fear, a burst of anger. As with his appraisal of her, she doubted anyone else would have noticed anything at all.

  He folded the paper. "You don't recognize the hand?"

  She shook her head. "It seems to belong to a man."

  Raoul cast a glance round the room. "Malcolm isn't back yet?"

  "I don't think so." She drew a breath.

  "You should show him before you leave, in case the handwriting means anything to him in light of the guests present."

  "I—"

  "Mélanie." Raoul's hand closed over her wrist. "You have to tell him."

  She stared across the room where Cordelia was speaking with Gui Laclos. "I didn't say I wouldn't."

  "No, but you were thinking it."

  No sense in denying that. "You don't find it a bit hypocritical for you to be preaching not having secrets from Malcolm?"

  "When have I claimed to be free of hypocrisy?" He removed his hand from her wrist, but she could feel the pressure of his gaze. "Old instincts die hard. I know what you're thinking."

  She twisted her head to meet his gaze. "What?"

  "That you could investigate this yourself, meet the blackmailer, make him go away somehow."

  Her fingers closed on the crêpe folds of her gown. "Three months ago that's what I'd have done. What you'd have helped me do."